Reign (22 page)

Although his marriage to Robin initially brought Evan and Dennis closer together, they split apart, seemingly irrevocably, when Evan announced his plans to go into the Armed Forces the summer after his high school graduation. Dennis had insisted on, indeed ordered him to go to college, but instead Evan, on his eighteenth birthday, enlisted in the Marines.

Dennis had gone into a rage that promised to be perpetual, and Evan now wondered just what had happened over the past year or two to make his father so tractable. He thought it might be giving up the Emperor that had done it.

Damn the Emperor anyway
, Evan thought savagely. That absurdly melodramatic personality had controlled his father's life, and Evan was delighted that it was finally gone. There had been so many times in the past when he had felt that he was not talking to his father at all, but to that damned character he had created. Evan had not seen
A Private Empire
on stage since he was thirteen, and had seen the movie only one time. He could not bear it.

Now, as he stood in the first row of the orchestra, he pictured his father in front of him dressed in that red costume with all the epaulets and the ribbons and the medals, and the thought made him nearly as sick as had his feeble attempts to command his squad. He closed his eyes for a moment to drive away the dizziness and the nausea and restore his breathing, and, while his imagination was in darkness, he heard a voice.

"What are you doing here?"

Startled, Evan opened his eyes and twisted around. A girl was standing halfway up the aisle. He could not see her face in the semi-darkness, but her form was slim and elegant, even in the loose-fitting pants she wore.

"Do you belong here?" she said, and advanced toward him into the light so that he could see her. Her features were small but beautifully made, and reminded him of porcelain faces, white and pink and delicate.

"I . . . I'm sorry," he said. "I'm, uh, Evan. Dennis's son."

"Evan," the girl repeated thoughtfully, then asked, somewhat sharply, "Are you an actor too?"

He laughed at the suggestion. "God, no. No way."

Her head tilted, and he could not shake the sensation that he was being studied as if under a glass. "Stage fright?"

How the hell did she guess that?
he wondered, and then realized that his unease was all too evident. If he was this uncomfortable with one stranger, how could he ever have functioned before an audience? "You got it," he said.

"I'm Terri," the girl said, coming down the aisle and holding out her hand. "Terri Deems. I work with
Marvella
." He took her hand and held it for a moment. It was cool, and her grip was firm. She shook it, then broke the contact, and smiled at him for the first time. "So, are you going to be here for a while? Or just visiting?"

"I'm . . . not sure." He grinned. "I may stay a little longer than I'd thought."

Already Evan was wondering what the duties of an assistant stage manager were. He was as immediately and irrationally attracted to Terri Deems as his father had been attracted to her mother a quarter of a century before.

Evan Hamilton's decision to remain at the Venetian Theatre was not based purely on his fascination with Terri Deems. Other inducements offered over dinner that evening were Robin's maternal urging, Sid's desire to catch up on the events of the past years, John Steinberg's assurances that Evan would be of great value to the company, and Dennis's diffident and chastised manner.

It was a novelty to Evan to have his father actually sit and listen and pay attention to what he was saying. What was even more seductive was the impression that his father was actually concerned about what Evan thought on certain subjects. It may, he considered, have been illusion, acting only, but Evan believed that his father had never before felt him important enough to even act for.

By the end of the evening, Evan accepted the blandishments of his courtiers, and agreed to remain. Curtis Wynn was called from his suite, introductions were made, and a date was set between the two for breakfast the following morning. Evan went to sleep that night thinking of Terri Deems and his father, hoping that he could grow closer to both of them.

~ * ~

The next day was the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, and Curtis Wynn awoke early, showered, shaved, and finished packing his bags. He was going back to his parents' home in Trenton that afternoon, but was of two minds about leaving the Venetian Theatre. As much as he loved working on and around the stage, with a practical efficiency that made him a valued member of every production team he was on, he was looking forward to a brief sabbatical from Kirkland.

Tommy
Werton's
death had affected him more than anyone knew. Curt had worked hard at making himself unflappable, and a great deal of his reputation stemmed from the fact that if the entire stage caved in, Curtis Wynn would not bat an eyelash, but would coolly and methodically continue to call the show out of one side of his mouth while making arrangements for carpenters out of the other. True to form, he had let no one see the effect Tommy's accident had had on him. In a way, he felt as though it was his fault, for, according to theatrical tradition, whatever went physically wrong on stage was the ultimate responsibility of the stage manager — not the director, not the actors, but the stage manager. Also, though he had seldom shown it, Curt liked Tommy
Werton
. He was easy to get along with, energetic, and he knew his business, unlike the boy he was going to have to initiate today.

God, talk about unbridled nepotism
, Curt thought. The prodigal son returns home, with absolutely no theatrical experience, and suddenly he's the new ASM, trying to fill the shoes of a techie whose hammer he isn't fit to carry. Oh well, he'd do with him what he could. At least the kid looked strong.

And, thank God, he was punctual. Right at the stroke of seven-thirty, Curt's bell rang. He opened the door, ushered Evan into the small kitchen of his suite, slid eggs and bacon onto plates, and served the coffee. After the meal, during which neither of them said much, Curt handed Evan a well-worn copy of
The Stage Crew Handbook
. "When I come back on Monday," he said, "I'll expect you to have read this and have learned most of it."

Evan nodded and began to flip through the book. "I know a lot of this stuff."

Curt was surprised, but didn't show it, nor did he ask where Evan had learned. "Good," was all he said. "We won't do much today. I have to leave at three. I want to go under the stage. There's a big storage area there. Lots of lumber, flats, rolls of canvas, a lot of
it's
garbage we'll have to throw out, but I want to inventory the materials we can still use."

It was eight-thirty by the time Evan and Curt reached the empty stage. "Nobody's here now," Curt said. "The custodians don't start till nine." He led the way to a narrow staircase in the stage right wings, and led Evan down it.

"How do they get anything up and down this way?" Evan said.

"They don't. Part of the stage floor drops to cellar level."

Curt hid a grimace as the sour smell of dampness struck him. Although the pool and activities rooms were on the same level as the storage area, the huge space under the theatre, except for a room directly beneath the stage that had served as an orchestra green room, was unheated and had only a dirt floor. Although there was never standing water, the scenery materials were all stored on wooden skids, the bottoms of which were filmed with a pale green mildew that caused the musty odor. They had already decided to install a dehumidifying system the following spring.

At the bottom of the stairs Curt flipped a switch that gave a feeble light to the brick and timber walls and the gray dirt under their feet. A walk of twenty yards brought them to the mouth of a central tunnel from which they could see bays on either side. Pieces of yellowed stage flats and 1x4's protruded from the darkness like massive, webbed fingers.

"The lights are just in the center corridor," Curt said. "
Here.
" He handed Evan a flashlight and a clipboard, to which a legal pad and a pen were clipped. "Just write down what I tell you. Single columns."

They made their way down the right hand side, and by ten-thirty had catalogued the contents of seven bays. As they were about to start on the eighth, the last one on that side, Evan cleared his throat. "Hey," he said, "is there a john down here?"

Curt shook his head. "Upstairs. Go ahead, I'll wait."

Absurd as he knew it was, his ability to control his urination was a point of pride with him. He would go before he went to the theatre to call a show, and would only seek a bathroom again after the show was over and the prompt book safely stowed away. When asked by a musical director if he had a cast iron bladder, Curt had replied, "Someone goes to take a piss, that's when things fuck up." Struck by the sprightly rhythm of this response, the musician had used it as the lyrics to a canon, performed with great fervor at the opening night party.

"Want anything?" Evan asked. "Coke?"

"All right," Curt said, taking fifty cents from his pocket and handing it to Evan. "A Coke."

Evan turned and trotted down the corridor toward the stairway, leaving Curt alone. He took a deep breath, wishing that he would have gone above if only to breathe some air that didn't smell like mildew, then walked into the eighth bay, shining his light up and around.

The bay was much like the others. A few pieces of old furniture used long years before as set dressing were piled atop each other, their stuffing rotting away. Odd lengths of lumber leaned against the outer wall, their bases green with mold. In one corner a steamer trunk sat as it must have sat for decades, the once bright stickers pasted to it now dulled to a flat and obscure gray. Curt allowed his controlled imagination to roam just far enough to consider what itinerant showman might have left it behind and why — a failure to appear due to drink, and a convenient escape from town before the management could prosecute him? Or something else — perhaps the owner's death, no next of kin, no one to send the trunk to, so it came down below, as buried as surely as its owner.

The thought was morbid, unlike him, and he tried to dismiss it, thinking instead about the tremendous trash bill the removal of all the ruined materials would bring, not a pleasant thought either, but one closer to realities, intended to help him drive back the discomfort that seemed to be entering his brain through the mold-coated channels of his nostrils.
If only
, he thought,
I could smell something else
. The scent of the mold seemed redolent of death and decay.

But Evan would be back soon. The kid seemed pleasant enough, and, like Tommy, eager to please. Now if only he didn't take so damn long on the crapper . . .

Curt had just about made up his mind to go above, when he heard footsteps from the direction of the stage. He was about to breathe a sigh of relief that Evan was returning, when he realized that the steps were not Evan's. Instead of a brisk clatter, like those of someone returning to their task, they were instead a slow and ponderous shuffling, not so much the sound of walking as that of something being dragged along in the dirt.

It was possible, wasn't it? Maybe Evan had glanced into one of the bays on the left and found something heavy that he wanted Curt to see. Wasn't that
possible
?

No. That was stupid. There was someone out in the main tunnel, and it wasn't Evan. So what? So fucking what? It sure as hell wasn't a ghost. It could be Abe
Kipp
or Harry
Ruhl
or a
goddam
electrician, and to learn who it was, all he had to do was look — just take a few steps to the main tunnel, turn, and
look
.

Then do it, damn it. Just do it
.

He hissed air through his teeth in self-disgust, twisted about, and stepped into the corridor.

It wasn't Evan. And it wasn't Abe
Kipp
or Harry
Ruhl
or some
goddam
electrician.

Electricians didn't wear long black robes with hoods that covered their faces.

Electricians didn't move along tunnels like this thing did, half-floating so that Curt could see the toes of its bare feet, the dirty yellow-white of old bones, dragging through the dust, plowing thin furrows as it came toward him.

Electricians, or Abe
Kipp
, or Harry
Ruhl
, didn't drive a wedge of ice down Curt's throat, didn't make him feel that at any second his carefully controlled bladder might burst in wet fear.

Electricians and plumbers and janitors didn't,
goddammit
,
do
those things, and Curt could only stand and watch as this absurdly medieval apparition, this terrifying and imbecilic
anachronism
drifted closer and closer, the light behind it growing brighter, the dark oval within the cowl becoming blacker, an ultimate blackness that would drown him if he did not move, or yell, or look away . . .

And then, in the blackness, he saw its eyes.

"Hope Sprite's okay!"

It was gone as quickly as Evan's words had come, just vanished, as if it had never been there, and instead he was looking at Evan bouncing down the tunnel, a green can in each hand, a smile on his face, a face mercifully normal, eyes, nose, mouth, all in the proper place and in the proper relief.